


Bless Your Heart and Hope to Die

by YukinoKoe



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jesse is a Good Southern Boy, M/M, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Undercut Hanzo Shimada, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 13:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13412727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YukinoKoe/pseuds/YukinoKoe
Summary: Hanzo Shimada. Age 28. Little Tokyo, Los Angeles, California.At least, that’s who he used to be.Before testifying against members of the Shimada Clan, Hanzo is placed in witness protection. Hanzo is forced to give up his name, his home, and his life and is sent to a rural town under the watchful eye of Jesse McCree.





	Bless Your Heart and Hope to Die

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this since June. JUNE! It's been sitting in my "Creative" folder for ages untouched because I usually don't want to post chapters to stories without having at least five more chapters ready to go. But I know if I don't post it, I'll never have the motivation to finish. It's amazing what having enthusiastic readers will do for your motivation. So here I am, putting my ass out there with another long-haul chapter fic, praying to God, Jesus, and our lord and savior Daddy Jeff that I won't let you guys down and actually finish this.
> 
> Probably like 90% inspired by the Brooklyn 99. If you haven’t seen it yet, get woke. While the story is heavily researched, I am by no means a marshal or a member of WITSEC, so the information presented may be inaccurate in some regards. Think of it as an AU of an AU. The town in this story is totally fictional, but it is inspired by real places.

_Hiro Sakamoto, 29 years old, Green Springs, New Mexico._

Hanzo looked up from the dossier on the cool steel table of interrogation room four, his brows creasing as he glared at the two officers across from him. “You made me a year older.”

The lighter-skinned officer of the two, a traditionally handsome man with short greying hair named Jack Morrison sighed deeply, running his hands across his face in slight annoyance. His partner Gabriel Reyes, a gruff, tanned man with a brown beard huffed out a laugh. Hanzo wasn’t sure if it was at his statement or at the irritation his partner was showing. After working with them for year, Hanzo was fairly sure it was the latter. Morrison shot Reyes a look, confirming Hanzo’s suspicions. “Look, this isn’t our area of expertise. Your marshal can fill you in on all the details including why you’re listed as a year older. But considering how dire your circumstances are, we needed to take action quickly. Gabe and I are going to drive you to Mesa Verde to meet him, then you’ll be off to your new life. You got your belongings?”

Hanzo glanced at his luggage: one small duffle bag with some clothes and other belongings and a sling backpack with some more personal effects. He didn’t have much to remind him of his home or family, nor did he have much interest in taking these sorts of items with him. The only photograph he brought was a picture of himself and his brother, lounging happily on the Santa Monica pier. The photograph was tucked carefully between the pages of a book of tanka poetry where he hoped it wouldn’t be confiscated by Morrison or Reyes or whoever this marshal was. “I’m prepared. I suppose I’d rather start my new life now than spend more time in this room.”

Reyes pushed off the wall he was leaning against, pulling a set of keys from his dark jeans. “We’ll take my car. It’ll be less conspicuous than an LA cop car driving down to Mesa Verde.”

“I’m surprised your car is clean enough to fit three people,” Morrison jabbed, his lips curling upward slightly at the corners.

Reyes rolled his eyes upward, but his smile remained on his lips. “At least I have a car that can actually fit human-sized people, unlike that toy car you drive around in.”

“It’s a Kia, Reyes. And it’s a practical, fuel-efficient vehicle.”

Hanzo was almost used to their marriage-like bickering at this point. He had been working with them for months on the Shimada Clan crackdown. For all intents and purposes, he was a rat. After his father’s death, the family changed. The Shimada Clan was never a paragon of justice – far from it. But after Sojiro passed, the clan started to shed its morals, escalating to murder, torture, and kidnapping for ransom. When the actions of the clan led to Genji’s death, Hanzo couldn’t take any more. He contacted the LAPD, and offered them a deal: information in exchange for freedom. And that, they could offer.

Two nights before, Morrison, Reyes, and their team sieged the base of operations for the Shimada Clan. It had been a fairly clean fight; the elders were caught off guard and unable to retaliate to the overwhelming number of officers. The news spread like wildfire, but all with no mention of the clan’s heir. Civilians wouldn’t know Hanzo’s face, but the criminal underworld would. Allies of the clan’s elders would know he was the rat. He was a wanted man, but his testimony was key in ensuring the end of the Shimada Clan.

So here he was with bags he had packed three days before, holding the last scraps of his life that he was leaving behind. It was refreshing, in a sense, even though his life now balanced on the precipice between a free life and death by the hands of his family’s allies. 

“C’mon kid,” Reyes grunted, motioning with a jerk of his head. “Time to go.”

Hanzo picked up his bags and slung each one over a shoulder, following Reyes and Morrison’s heavy footsteps. They were silent the walk to the garage aside from the occasional jingle of keys twirling around Reyes’s finger and the equally occasional grunt of annoyance from Morrison. The precinct was fairly quiet as well, yet Hanzo could feel their gazes lingering. It was as though he were headed to the executioner, and in a way, he was. Hanzo Shimada would soon be dead, and Hiro Sakamoto would be born in his place.

The metal door to the garage swung open with a loud creak, and Reyes held the door, motioning for Hanzo to walk through. “We’ll take the back roads to the interstate, but once we get on, we should be moving too fast for anyone to really spot you. My windows are tinted, but you can’t be too careful. Keep your head down though. I’m not in the mood to take chances. Especially chances that will fuck up my windows with bullet holes.”

Reyes pressed the automatic lock on his keys, flashing the lights of what could possibly be considered an antique off-white suburban. Parts of the bumper were buckled in as if it had been rear ended a couple times, and the back taillight was held in place with several strips of weathered duct tape. It was amazing that it even had a battery lock. “When are you ever going to replace this hunk of junk?” Morrison asked with a quirk of his brow. 

Reyes opened the trunk and tossed in his jacket, gesturing to Hanzo to put his bag in the trunk. “I’ll replace it when it stops running, Jackie,” he grinned, slamming the trunk shut once Hanzo had placed his bag inside. “Besides, the bike gets more use, but we couldn’t exactly fit the tree of us on there. Maybe if I had a sidecar and you held on tight.”

Morrison’s lips pursed at the statement, and he chose not to respond, instead climbing into the front seat. Reyes swung open the back door for Hanzo before taking the driver’s seat. Morrison was somewhat correct in the state of the car’s cleanliness. Dozens of wrappers, half empty bottles, and fast food bags littered the floor and wadded up clothes were left on the seats. Hanzo picked up a blue shirt that didn’t look like anything Reyes would be caught dead in. It almost looked like the shirt Morrison had worn the other day. Wait, was that Morrison’s shirt? Hanzo decided not to think about it further, and instead tossed it onto the seat with the bundled-up jacket.

“Keep your head down, Shimada,” Reyes said, throwing the car in reverse and turning with his hand against the back of Morrison’s seat to look out the back. Once he had backed out, Reyes switched the car into drive and headed towards the exit. His hand still lingered on the back of Morrison’s seat, stretched out comfortably until the gate. Reyes fished out his ID and scanned it, and the ticked machine beeped in confirmation. The gate raised and Reyes rolled through, exiting the now fairly empty garage into the warm evening sun.

Hanzo ducked his head down, resting his forearms against his knees. He glanced down at his feet, staring at his toes poking through brown sandals. It felt strange to be out of the traditional clothes he wore nearly every day at the compound, but now he looked like any other Californian: brown sandals, faded blue jeans with holes in the knees, and a light blue t-shirt with a colorful design of Malibu. His hair hung around his face in dark sheets, and he ran his fingers through it, resting his palm against his forehead. This was his break, his freedom. He could finally live as he wanted, separated from the clan. And yet, it left him feeling cold and unsure. Perhaps, that came with being in witness protection.

The drive to Mesa Verde was long and fairly quiet. Hanzo spent most of it reclined against the backseat, watching the passing scenery of LA. An hour into their drive, Reyes turned on the radio, blasting a hard rock song from the 1980s through the suburban. This move was immediately overturned by Morrison, who switched it to NPR. Reyes didn’t object, only switching it to check traffic updates every so often. Two hours in, Morrison pulled out a laptop and started typing, prompting Reyes to ask what he was doing. “If I’m going to be in a car for over six hours, might as well get some paperwork done,” Morrison responded. Reyes didn’t respond back.

By the time they reached their destination, the sky was dark, with only a hint of sun still peeking at the horizon. Hanzo had dozed off for the last half hour of their trip, and Morrison tapped his shoulder to wake him up. “We’re here. Your marshal should be here any minute,” he said in a quiet but gruff voice.

Hanzo blinked his eyes. They were parked at a gas station pump, and Reyes was outside filling the tank. Florescent lights filtered through the windows. Morrison had put his laptop away and was leaning over the front seat, looking back at Hanzo. “Don’t worry, kid. You’re in good hands. We’ll take care of the case from here. Just stay safe out there.”

Hanzo hummed in appreciation, nodding slightly, still groggy from his nap. Morrison turned back to the front and opened the door on his side, stretching his back and talking to Reyes. Hanzo could see Reyes nodding, unable to hear their conversation. He grabbed his bag and tried to exit the car, but to no surprise, it was child-locked. Hanzo instead pressed his forehead against the window, looking out at passing cars on the interstate. The palm trees lining the road swayed in the night breeze, illuminated by the headlights of passing cars.

An old red pick-up truck pulled in beside them, parked at the pump on the opposite side. A man wearing a plaid shirt and a cowboy hat hopped out, his boots heavily hitting the ground. As he filled his tank, he looked at the window where Hanzo was sitting and tipped his cowboy hat. Hanzo froze. He shouldn’t be easy to see through the tinted windows of Reyes’s van. His heart seized in his chest, wondering what to do. But his worries were answered by Reyes approaching the Southerner with a handshake and a gesture towards the back seat of the suburban. So, this was his marshal.

Reyes opened Hanzo’s door and gestured towards the cowboy. “Hop out. You’re out of our hands now. This is the marshal who will be keeping an eye on you.”

The cowboy winked at him. His features were effortlessly handsome, and his smile was friendly, oozing with southern hospitality. He was built like a soldier: wide shoulders, broad chest, and muscular arms. Hanzo couldn’t help but find him attractive, despite his overly southern aesthetic. “So,” the marshal drawled, his voice deep and languid in a way that made Hanzo’s heart skip a beat. “You’re Hiro Sakamoto. Nice to meetcha. The name’s Jesse McCree. Call me watcha like. I think we’ll get along nicely.”

He thrust his hand out for Hanzo to shake, which he took. The marshal’s grip was firm, and lingered just a bit longer than a handshake should. McCree turned from Hanzo to Reyes and Morrison, putting a hand in the pocket of his jeans. “Sorry ‘bout making y’all drive all the way out here, but it’s about an eighteen-hour trip for me. Didn’t have the time to drive out and stay over in LA for a night, and the department was stingy about buyin’ me a plane ticket.”

“It’s no trouble,” Morrison said, “Our drive isn’t nearly as long as yours. You’ll be good to drive through the night? Let us buy you a cup of coffee for the road.”

“Might take you up on that offer,” McCree smiled, “Get me a cup of whatever. Black. I gotta piss, so let this one take some time to stretch his legs. We got a long road tonight.” He gestured back to Hanzo with a jerk of his thumb. Morrison nodded, and Jesse turned back towards his truck, returning the nozzle to its base. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and handed a five-dollar bill to Hanzo with another wink. “Getcha something for the road. Coffee or whatever. It’s a four-hour drive to our stop in Tucson from here. It’s on me. Bring back the change.”

McCree headed inside and Hanzo followed. The gas station had a few people meandering through, mostly grabbing cases of beer or energy drinks or in some unfortunate cases, both. Hanzo spent most of the time wandering through the aisles, not looking at anything in particular. He wasn’t hungry, nor did he particularly want to be in the gas station right now. The sooner he left California, the sooner he could cut off his ties to the clan.

“Dunno what you want?” a familiar, southern voice asked. McCree stood beside him, a bottle of soda and a couple bags of chips in his hands. Hanzo looked up at the marshal’s face, his ever-present smile gracing his features. “I’m not really hungry,” he responded, turning back to the magazine rack.

“S’allright. Don’t need to force yourself. We’ll probably have to make another stop on the way back. I ain’t a fan of staying in a car for hours at a time.”

McCree leaned forward, his chin near Hanzo’s shoulders. Hanzo could feel his breath against his ear, smell the faint scent of tobacco on his breath. He froze, trying not to shudder at the man’s proximity. He wondered if the marshal always was this personal with people. “Are you this friendly with everyone you’ve just met?” he asked, furrowing his brows.

“Just the good lookin’ ones,” McCree laughed. Hanzo turned his head away to hide the red tint of his cheeks. “Nah, I’m just messin’ with ya,” McCree responded. “Yeah, I’m friendly with most people. As long as you stay on my good side, you get my friendly side too.” When he moved away, holding a magazine called “Southern Comfort” in his hands, Hanzo released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. McCree flipped through the pages, but seemed unimpressed and returned it to the stand. “Now, let’s get you something to drink and get on outa here.”

After deciding on a bottled green tea, Hanzo and McCree approached the counter. McCree bought a package of cigars, flashing his ID to the bored-looking cashier. He took the bottle of tea from Hanzo and paid for it along with his items. When Hanzo tried to give McCree his five dollars back, the marshal shrugged. “Just buy me a drink at the next stop.”

Back at the truck, Morrison was waiting with two cups of coffee. He handed one to McCree, and took a sip from the other. “Reyes is working on the camera feed. I’d rather not have all four of us on footage so close to LA. You all set?”

“Just about,” McCree drawled before shifting his attention to Hanzo. “You got a bag?”

Hanzo nodded in response, walking over to the trunk to grab his duffel bag. As he closed the trunk, bag in hand, Reyes exited the gas station, twirling his suburban keys around his finger. “Easy,” he muttered, tossing the keys to Morrison. “These two leaving?”

“Yep. Good seein’ y’all again, even if it only happens once in a blue moon.”

“Now that you’re in WITSEC, we’ll probably see you even less,” Morrison said, pushing his back off the suburban. “Glad you’re off transport though. Even though you’re just doing more transporting right now.”

McCree laughed boisterously, making a couple passing by raise their eyebrows at him. “This ain’t nothin’. Mr. Sakamoto here seems like a much calmer fella than I use to deal with. Y’all drive safe now. It’s gettin’ late, and I know that’s past you gramps’ bedtime.”

Reyes snorted. “You’re starting to get up there yourself, McCree. Don’t be so cocky.”

The marshal tipped his hat with one of his dazzling smiles. “Miss y’all too.” McCree shook Reyes’s and Morrison’s hands, and Hanzo followed suit. 

“Good luck out there, Sakamoto,” Reyes said quietly, almost in a whisper to Hanzo. “We’ll take good care of the case. McCree will keep you informed on any information. He’s a good kid, and he’ll keep you alive. See you in a few months.”

Reyes walked away, heading towards the passenger door of his suburban. Hanzo could hear them already bickering when Reyes asked Morrison if he knew how to drive a real car. McCree snorted, watching them get into their car. “It’s like watching a married couple,” he mused, taking a drink from the coffee cup Morrison had given him. “Hell, as far as I know, they’re basically married, what with being constantly partnered. LA’s wonder duo, those two.”

“Do you think they might be dating?” Hanzo asked, watching Morrison back out from the pump.

McCree didn’t answer. He simply laughed again, loudly and cheerfully. He turned to his truck and opened the passenger door. “Watch your step,” McCree warned as Hanzo moved to get into the seat. “It’s a high climb.”

Hanzo vaulted into the seat, earning an impressed whistle from the marshal. McCree shut the door after him and headed to the driver’s seat. He turned on the ignition, starting up the truck with a loud purr of the engine. The radio was already on, playing, no surprise, country music. “Red truck, cowboy hat, country music… You are a walking cowboy stereotype, Mr. McCree.”

McCree laughed, picking up speed as they headed towards the interstate. “Some people are like that in the south. You’ll get used to it. We southerners can be a proud bunch.” Once they were on the interstate, McCree took a sip of his coffee. “Well, now that we’ve got hours ahead of us, might as well fill you in on your new identity.” McCree rummaged around, pulling out a thick manila file from between the seats. “Here’s everything you’ll need to know. Figured you got a look at the file back in LA, but you probably got tons of questions. I’m here to answer any you got.”

McCree handed Hanzo the file and switched on the passenger side light. The dossier was heavy in Hanzo’s hands, much thicker than the one he looked over in the police station. The tab on the file read “Hiro Sakamoto” in black, blocky handwriting. He opened the file to the summary page, identical to the one from before.

_Name: Hiro Sakamoto_  
Age: 29  
DOB: 5/16/1988  
Location: 729 Maple St, Green Springs, NM  
Previous Location: Santa Barbara, CA  
Family: 1st generation Japanese immigrant. Father deceased, mother located in Osaka, Japan. No siblings. 

Hanzo flinched at the last line. No siblings. He thought of Genji, wishing the younger Shimada wasn’t deceased. That he could have been with Hanzo right now with some equally ridiculous identity like Goro or Genpaku. He decided not to keep thinking about it, instead returning to his age. “So, why am I a year older? My actual birthday is much later in the year. Why has this been changed?”

“Gotta make sure you’re as far away from the original as possible,” McCree stated, stroking his beard. “Shame really. The name Hanzo really suits ya. But if we’re gonna keep you safe, we gotta make sure you can’t be easily traced back to your original self.”

“I understand,” Hanzo nodded, turning back to the dossier. The next couple pages were essentially a written backstory for Hiro Sakamoto, explaining his family, his educational background, and his work background. Hanzo assumed he would have to memorize this as well. The next page included a document describing the changes in lifestyle he would need to make. He would need to change his appearance, his clothing, his hobbies – everything distinct about Hanzo Shimada would be erased, changed into Hiro Sakamoto. “Will I need to wear a cowboy hat and boots every day?” Hanzo asked, glancing up at McCree’s hat.

The marshal laughed, “If you want to, sure. I think it might suit ya.”

“Absolutely not,” Hanzo frowned, inciting more laughter from McCree. “I am accustomed to wearing traditional Japanese clothing. Anything western would be suitable. Although It will be difficult to constantly hide my tattoo.”

“I noticed you had some impressive ink on your left arm. Yeah, that’ll be hell to cover, especially now during the summer months it’s hotter than hell. Just wear sleeves as often as you can. Don’t go showin’ off too much of it. The less people see of it, the less they’ll remember. I’d tell ya to cover it up with makeup, but it’s so massive that’d be a Herculean feat. Nah, there’s other stuff you can do. Trim your beard, cut your hair, whatever floats your boat. We’ll be takin’ care of some of that in Tucson.”

Hanzo wondered what he’d look like with a beard like McCree’s, then immediately decided against it. He returned to looking at the dossier. A large portion was contractual information explaining WITSEC, the program, stipends, and the rules he would need to follow. After several minutes of silence, McCree glanced over to check what page he was on, and spoke up, “Essentially, don’t get yourself into trouble. We can’t keep you safe if you go around acting like a criminal. And no getting yourself on TV or on YouTube or nothin’.”

“Well, there goes my plans of live vlogging my time in witness protection,” Hanzo sarcastically responded, a light smirk stretching across his features. McCree snorted in response with a loud splutter of coffee. “Shoot, don't go makin’ me laugh so hard when I got coffee in my mouth.”

At the back of the envelope was a clear plastic pouch. Inside were several files: his lease and other housing forms, annual tax returns in his new name, and all sorts of legal documents for Hiro Sakamoto. There was even a New Mexico driver license at the bottom of the pouch with the same picture from his latest license photo in California. Also in the pouch was a black smartphone, which Hanzo removed and powered on. The loading symbol flashed and opened to a passcode lock. “What’s the code for the phone?” Hanzo asked, looking towards the driver.

“It’s 2263. Change it if you like, but keep a passcode on it. Don’t want any strangers going through your phone and findin’ out anything they shouldn’t know. We also turned off location services, so no one should be able to track you through it. Oh, and I put my number in there as well as an emergency line listed under “Mom”. Don’t call that unless it’s a dire emergency.”

Hanzo checked the phone. Sure enough, there were two numbers, both listed under M. “Shouldn’t I change it to Japanese? My mother is apparently in Osaka after all.”

“Do whatever you like. Your call as long as the number ain’t suspicious lookin’.” Jesse leaned back in his seat, looking over towards the side of the road. “Look there. Already at the Arizona border. Time flies, don’t it?”

Hanzo glanced up towards where McCree was looking. Sure enough, they were passing by a green sign that read “Arizona State Line”. Up ahead was nothing but the sad shadows of the empty desert and the headlamps outside of an adult video store. “Is this similar to Green Springs?” he asked, trying to mask his distaste.

“Nah,” McCree answered. “You're a bit further north. Little more rain, and little less nothingness.” The marshal took out the pack of cigars from the gas station bag and pushed open the carton with his thumb. “Mind if I smoke? I’ll roll the window down.”

“It’s fine,” Hanzo said, flipping back to the pages describing his new backstory. “I don’t mind.”

McCree rolled down the window and stuck the cigar between his teeth. He pulled a silver lighter from his shirt pocket and clicked it open, letting the flames ignite the tip of his cigar. It had a mildly sweet and woody smell along with the tobacco undertones, far unlike the smell Hanzo associated with smokers. McCree took a long drag and let out a puff into the night air. “Nasty habit,” he said, tapping the cigar against the window. “Don’t plan on quittin’ though.”

They sat in silence for a while aside from the occasional inhale from McCree, the soft white noise of radio commercials, and the whoosh of the wind passing by. McCree stubbed out the cigar in an ashtray near the cup holders before sighing and speaking up. “I know you’re probably pretty excited to be startin’ your new life, but we have to stop in Tucson first. There’s no way in hell I can drive all the way to Green Springs in one day, and we need to get your look sorted out before you show up there. Don’t wanna raise any suspicions.”

“Hm,” Hanzo hummed. “It won’t be suspicious enough showing up with a marshal?”

“Nah. Most everyone who knows me thinks I’m just a glorified traffic cop. Besides, I lived in LA for a bit. It’s how I met Reyes and Morrison. Story is that I know you from my time in California.”

“Oh?” Hanzo questioned, his eyebrow quirking upward. “And how did we meet in California?”

McCree smiled toothily. “You stopped me thinkin’ I was Scott Eastwood at a country bar in SoCal.” Hanzo snorted, to which, McCree’s smile only widened. “I’m jokin’. Depends on your story. Your personality is your domain. Can’t come up with that for you.”

Hanzo hummed again, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “A friend of mine saw you in your ridiculous cowboy getup on the street and tried to hire you as a stripper for a party.”

The marshal roared with laughter, having to slow down slightly to keep himself from sending the truck rocketing forward. “Didn’t expect that at all from ya, Sakamoto. Alright, I’ll bite. What happened next? How did we get acquainted?”

“That depends on what you would do, McCree. Your personality is your domain after all,” Hanzo smirked.

Jesse thought for a moment, still grinning widely at Hanzo’s previous remark. “Well, I woulda told her, “Sorry to disappoint, m’am, but I’m no stripper. Just a regular old cowboy.”

“My friend would have gotten embarrassed at her mistake,” Hanzo responded quickly, thinking on his toes. “And would have invited you to the party to make up for her rudeness.”

“And I would have accepted her invite,” McCree replied, equally as fast as Hanzo had.

“And I would have been at that party.”

“And there you were.”

There was a deep silence between them for a moment. McCree’s hair whipped around his forehead as the wind blew through the open window. The moon was out now, filling the dark desert with a pale silvery glow that silhouetted McCree’s grizzled features. He looked like he was carved from stone but filled with boundless amounts of life and character. Hanzo jerked his head away, not looking over at the handsome cowboy with the poor fashion sense. He was man enough to admit he was attracted to the marshal on a physical level, but he also knew that there would never be any sort of relationship between them. The man was a paradoxical guard dog holding a tight leash. He just had to be careful, as he always was.

**Author's Note:**

> First person to figure out what 2263 stands for gets a shoutout.


End file.
